


Fer-de-Lance

by SkelosBadlands



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Imprisonment, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkelosBadlands/pseuds/SkelosBadlands
Summary: Early in the Guarma rebellion, Hercule finds himself captured by Fussar's men and locked in a jail cell. All his life he has overcome adversity using his wits and ingenuity--along with a little luck--but this time, it will take more than clever words to survive.
Relationships: Hercule Fontaine/Levi Simon





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the early spring of 1899.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The crowd taunts Hercule as two of the soldiers drag him to one of the tall cages overlooking the plaza. His Spanish is unfortunately good enough to understand almost everything they shout. Most of the men are smoking cigars or holding beers. The occasion is being treated like a celebration, and from the speech Fussar is giving, that makes sense. The escalating rebellion isn’t just disrupting work on the sugar plantation, it’s affecting the morale of the soldiers and making Fussar’s rich benefactors nervous. Even the capture of one smuggler can be a rousing victory. His only consolation is knowing the rest of his crew got away.

Hercule stops listening to Fussar’s droning voice and studies the soldiers. He would happily murder all of them if he could. Especially the one who keeps flicking cigar ashes at him through the bars, and the one who kicked him in the ribs as he was being shackled. He distracts himself with violent fantasies of escape and revenge, knowing at this point they will remain mere fantasies for what little time he has left. The ash-flicker could be fed his own cigar before execution. Fussar could be eviscerated with his ceremonial sword, or perhaps handed over to the dozens of workers eager to express their discontent.

His gaze drifts to the man standing a few paces behind Fussar. _Levi Simon_ , Hercule thinks. _He’s the one Leon calls Fussar’s dog_. The little American has long gray-brown hair and a cruel face. Right now he is staring straight ahead, his mouth set in a thin line and his posture rigid. As though sensing Hercule’s appraisal, he glances over. A sneer twists his features. Hercule pictures pressing a knife to his throat until that smug look vanishes, and then cutting so deep the blade touches vertebrae. Apparently losing interest in being stared down, Simon turns away, his face reverting to a stoic mask.

Fussar concludes his speech, then abruptly pivots and heads for the hacienda. With a sharp gesture to the audience of soldiers, Simon spurs them into belated cheers. Satisfied, he follows after the colonel.

***

After several hours, Hercule is moved to the actual jail. A late afternoon downpour washed off most of the dirt and sweat covering him, and he tried with little luck to drink some of the rain, since they haven’t given him any water. The jail is in what looks like an old storehouse, with four cells built along the back wall. He’s surprised they didn’t execute him immediately, until he realizes they want to interrogate him first. Hercule knows a man called Ángel typically handles questioning prisoners. His brutality is notorious, and many of the recipients of his tactics don’t survive. But Ángel doesn’t speak French or English, much less Creole, and no one seems to have figured out how proficient Hercule’s Spanish is. He’s not inclined to enlighten them, although that might be better than sitting on the floor, waiting for something to happen. The minutes pass even slower here than they did in the cage, and Hercule eventually pulls off his boots and closes his eyes.

The door finally opens, and Levi Simon walks in. Accompanying him is a young soldier carrying a wooden chair. The soldier places the chair facing Hercule’s cell, regarding Hercule himself with indifference, then he nods to Simon and leaves the jail.

Simon stands with his hands on his hips for a few moments before sitting. He’s wearing the same clothes from earlier, but he removed his hat and his holster is empty. Up close, Hercule can see that he’s a little younger than he assumed. Based on his graying hair and the crow’s feet around his eyes, he is probably in his late thirties. Two rings are strung like charms on a leather necklace visible below the open buttons of his collar. Hercule wonders if they are wedding bands stolen from workers.

“Do you speak English?” Simon asks.

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Why does that matter?”

“What is your name?” Simon repeats. He’s sitting stiffly on the chair, fussing with the cuff of his leather glove, and he hasn’t looked at Hercule yet.

“Hercule Fontaine. Was that chair too heavy for you?”

“Excuse me?” Now Simon’s eyes meet his.

“I’m just wondering if that was a perk of your position, or if you need help with difficult tasks. Does he cut your food for you, too?”

Simon gets to his feet, glowering down at him. “You think I’m going to be insulted by someone like you?”

Hercule stands as well and moves closer to the bars. Even without his boots, he’s almost six inches taller. Simon flinches, and when he backs up, his legs bump the chair.

“I believe you are insulted, yes,” Hercule says.

Face flushing in anger or embarrassment, Simon shoves the chair away and remains standing. “How many of you are there?”

“Just one of me.”

“You know what I mean. How many pirates?”

“We aren’t pirates.”

“No? A gang of criminals running around, stealing and trying to disrupt honest labor, I think that—”

“Honest?” Hercule interrupts.

Ignoring him, Simon says, “How many others?”

“Why should I talk to you? You won’t let me go, no matter how many questions I answer.”

“It’s in your best interests to cooperate.”

Laughing, Hercule spreads his arms. “I don’t see how. Will you treat me like a human if I do? Right up until you hang me, that is.” He shifts, pointing at Simon’s holster. “I hear you like to hit people with your gun, but you didn’t bring it. What’s the matter, you don’t want to come in here and show me that trick?”

Simon just stares at him, eyes narrowed. His hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides.

“I’m sure you could ask that soldier to come back and hit me for you,” Hercule says.

“How many other pirates are there?”

“This is boring. Can I have some water? Everyone forgot I’m in here without any. Perhaps they are all busy carrying chairs.”

“Are you going to answer my questions?”

“No, but I’m thirsty,” Hercule says.

“I don’t care.” Simon returns to the chair and sits. “I don’t have all night. It’s soon time for supper.”

“And I suppose I won’t be getting that, either.”

“Why should we reward you for your defiance?”

Hercule is unable to keep the disgust off his face. He has heard plenty about the ruthless treatment doled out by Fussar and his men, has now seen some of it firsthand, but he can’t understand how anyone can be so casually inhumane. “ _C’est incroyable_ ,” he says.

“What?” Simon snaps.

“You think food and water are rewards? I thought people were treated like animals here, but they aren’t even treated that well.”

“I don’t need to be lectured by a pirate.”

“Leave me alone. Go eat your dinner.”

Simon shrugs and gets up, leaving the jail without another word.

Closing his eyes, Hercule imagines smashing a gun into Simon’s face, once for each time he ever did it to someone else. If the number of strikes didn’t kill him, he’d jam the muzzle against the man’s shattered cheek and pull the trigger.

An hour later, while Hercule dozes in the corner of the cell, the door opens. He doesn’t bother to look. Something sails through the bars and lands heavily on the floor by his feet. It’s a canteen. He glances up in time to see Simon already striding to the door.

***

Aside from a soldier coming to empty the bucket he was provided with, no one enters the jail for hours. In the late morning, Simon shows up. His hat is slung low, hiding his eyes, and his gun is in its holster. “Give me the canteen,” he says.

Hercule pushes the empty canteen up to the bars, making Simon bend down for it. Only after he straightens up does it register how stupid the overseer is to get so close to the cell—and how stupid _Hercule_ is, to not be ready for exactly that.

Minutes later, Simon is back, holding the canteen and a small paper bag. He seems to belatedly appreciate the danger in Hercule’s proximity to the bars, and he puts both items on the seat of the chair, then slides the chair within reach of the cell.

“Are you heading out for a pleasant day of terrorizing the workers?” Hercule asks. “Maybe you will even get to whip someone.”

Simon’s eyes are hard, still shadowed under the brim of the hat. “You oughta watch your tongue when I’m bein’ generous.”

“Ah, right, these are my ‘rewards.’ I thought I didn’t earn any.”

Simon grips the back of the chair. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing corded veins running the length of his slender forearms. Finally, he releases the chair and turns. “You better be ready to answer questions tonight,” he says, slamming the door behind him.

Hercule picks up the canteen and paper bag. There’s a chunk of soft bread and an orange in the bag. _Generous_ _indeed_ , Hercule thinks. _Sadistic bastard._

While he eats, he imagines grabbing Simon by the collar and yanking him forward, slamming his head into the metal bars to stun him. Then he could wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until he goes limp, allowing Hercule to get the key to the cell and escape.

***

He listens to the voices and laughter of passing guards, as well as the occasional hushed conversations between workers. He is permitting himself a glimmer of hope—the longer he is kept alive, the longer the others have to mount a rescue attempt. The problem is the incredibly poor odds of success; there simply aren’t enough rebels to take on Aguasdulces, and the compound is well-prepared for any kind of infiltration. The glimmer is more of a smoldering ember.

Around twilight, Simon shows up. He’s carrying a small leather satchel that he sets near the door. “Put the canteen on the chair,” he says as he lights the oil lamp suspended from the ceiling. As soon as Hercule complies, he leaves to refill it. Obviously he recognized his foolish lapse of judgment this morning, and he’ll be careful to stay out of reach. Unless he can be goaded or tricked into coming too close, that was likely the one opportunity to attack him.

Simon comes back and puts the full canteen on the chair. He seems distracted by something, ignoring Hercule as he takes off his hat and hangs it by the door. For a few seconds he stays where he is, absently smoothing his hair behind his ears. Hercule grabs the canteen and settles on the floor.

Simon drags the chair away from the cell and sits. “Are you going to cooperate this time?”

“Very doubtful.”

“Do you not understand the situation you’re in?”

“I understand it perfectly. If I don’t talk, you will kill me. If I do talk, you will kill me anyway.”

Simon doesn’t deny it. Instead, he says, “What would you recommend we do with someone who sabotages our work and incites a rebellion?”

“I think you might want to consider why the workers would rebel.”

“What’s to consider? They’re a bunch of criminals, and they’re being encouraged and armed by another bunch of criminals.”

Disdain pulls Hercule’s mouth into a frown. “Are you stupid enough to really believe that, or is that just how you’re able to sleep at night?”

Simon’s face darkens. He remains seated, but his gloved fingers flex and his jaw is clenched. “I don’t have any trouble sleeping, except when people like you make my job difficult.” He takes a few long breaths, composing himself. “How many other pirates are there?”

“This again? Really?”

“How many?”

“A thousand. Would that give you trouble sleeping?”

“Damn it, do you want Ángel to do this instead? He doesn’t need to ask the questions to be able to hurt you.”

Hercule smirks. In Spanish, he says, “Sure, go get him.”

“You speak Spanish, too?” Simon’s brow is furrowed. “How did we not know that?”

“No one asked,” he says, switching back to English. He shrugs. “So you see, all of your polite questions and your oranges are unnecessary. You can let Ángel deal with me. He can probably do what you cannot.”

Simon stands, his eyes fixed on Hercule. “You think I won’t hit you?” he says in a soft voice.

“I think you want to very badly. But you are more comfortable abusing weak, hungry workers.” Hercule is ready. If Simon loses his temper and drifts too close, he can reach his leg and pull him off balance. Although Leon likes to compare the overseer to an obedient dog, right now Hercule needs him to be more like one of the island’s fer-de-lance vipers.

Aside from pursing his thin lips, Simon doesn’t react. He breaks the eye contact first, retreating to the door and picking up his hat.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Hercule asks. “Hurting people, being so full of hate?”

“Shut up,” Simon mutters. He grabs the leather satchel he left by the door and opens it. He removes a bulky paper bag and lays it on the chair before nudging the chair toward the cell once again. Finally he extinguishes the oil lamp and walks outside.

Hercule has enough light from the setting sun to see. There’s a wrapped piece of salted beef, a large chunk of bread, and another orange. He eats slowly, wondering if it actually tastes this good, or if he’s so hungry it just seems that way.

Later, when everything is pitch black, he falls asleep thinking of Simon bound in front of him, while he uses the man’s own whip to deliver lash after lash, leaving stripes across his bare back. Then, when Simon begs for mercy, he’d loop the bloody whip around his neck, tightening it until those piercing eyes are dull and empty.


	2. Chapter 2

Two soldiers come to empty the bucket this time, probably deciding it’s simpler to have one man hold him at gunpoint while the other enters the cell. His future appears more bleak with each hour that goes by, but he’s not quite desperate enough to attempt something as foolish as rushing two armed men. He notices the guard outside the cell frowning at the remains of his “dinner.” He thinks about asking in Spanish what else he should do with it, when the cell doesn’t have the luxury of a garbage bin, but finds he can’t be bothered.

“Ernesto, look,” the guard says in Spanish when the other man brings back the bucket.

“Hmm?”

“On the ground.”

Ernesto spots the bag and orange peel. He drops the bucket in the corner and scoops up the garbage, then both men leave. Hercule has no idea what that was all about, and he’s not sure he cares.

Later that morning, a conversation takes place outside the jail. Hercule identifies the speakers as Fussar and the two guards from earlier, but they quickly lower their voices, preventing him from eavesdropping. Suddenly Fussar calls loudly, “Mr. Simon!”, adding in Spanish, “Come here, please.”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“I must ask you, did you give the prisoner food?”

After a brief pause, Simon answers, “Yes. I did. Just a—”

A loud crack cuts off the overseer’s words. The noise is followed by a yelp and someone falling against the wall of the jail. Hercule realizes Fussar struck Simon.

“I believe I was clear that he gets only water,” Fussar says.

“I just thought—”

“Your job is not thinking. Your job is getting results. We are trying this your way, but if you cannot get answers, I will have Ángel get them. Or we’ll hang this one and catch another. Understand?”

Simon’s reply is low and muffled. “I understand.”

“Get yourself cleaned up,” Fussar says disdainfully.

The door swings open and Fussar steps inside, trailed by Ernesto and the other soldier. This gets Hercule’s attention; Fussar barely looked at him during the impromptu celebration after he was captured, and he certainly hasn’t bothered to speak to him.

“It seems you are not so talkative,” Fussar says.

“You have not sent anyone I want to talk to.”

“Ah, well, I will not claim that Mr. Simon is good company. But I am unable to indulge in an extravagance such as friendly interrogators. You see, I need certain information.” Fussar smiles, and it’s so insincere the effect is disturbing. “I would like to offer you a deal.”

“Go on,” Hercule says.

“Answer our questions—truthfully, of course—and you will be spared. Rather than hanging you, we will allow you to work in the fields.”

“You want me to work _here_?”

“Now, now,” Fussar says. “How old are you? Twenty-five, perhaps? You work for me for a few years, your crimes are forgiven, and you are a free man before you are thirty.”

Hercule starts to laugh. He can’t help it. The absurdity, the audacity, of these people is too much to bear.

Fussar’s fake smile vanishes. “You find this humorous? I suggest you think about it very seriously, my young friend. The alternative will be much less pleasant.”

The idea of betraying his crew for the honor of making Fussar richer is beyond comprehension. He shuts his eyes and waits for all of them to leave.

Alone once more, he spends part of the day trying to fantasize about tricking Fussar into believing Simon is a traitor, leading to the man’s execution… but he keeps hearing the sound of Fussar’s fist striking Simon’s face and losing his train of thought.

***

Simon still has not shown up by the time the sun is completely set. No one else comes, either. He’s hungry, but he’s been hungry before, for far longer than this. It’s the thirst that will become a more critical problem. He finished the canteen early in the afternoon.

The door opens at last. A tall soldier enters, holding his rifle loosely in front of him. Simon steps inside as well. He strikes a match and lights the oil lamp. The bruise is high on his left cheek, already an ugly black and blue color. Fussar apparently caught him with one of his rings, because there’s a gash in the center where the skin split over his prominent cheekbone. His white shirt has a splotch of blood on the collar, along with smudges of it on the sleeve where he must have tried to wipe his face. Simon just stands with his hooded eyes downcast during Hercule’s scrutiny.

Hercule sets the empty canteen on the chair. Surely he’ll still get water. Simon retrieves the canteen and holds it out to the soldier.

“That’s not my job. You do it,” the man says in Spanish.

Without arguing, Simon stalks out of the jail. When he returns, he yanks the chair out of the way and hands the canteen to Hercule through the bars. It’s an act of defiance, although Hercule isn’t sure who is being defied. There is zero risk of Hercule attacking him with the soldier here to chaperone. He drinks, trying to conceal how desperate for water he is.

To the soldier, Hercule says, “Are you going to ask me some dull questions as well?”

“ _No hablo ingl_ _é_ _s,”_ he says in a bored voice.

Hercule looks questioningly at Simon, who nods in confirmation. So they don’t trust Simon now, at least not enough to send him in alone, but they aren’t concerned with keeping tabs on what is said. For some reason he chose not to reveal that Hercule speaks Spanish, or else Ángel likely would have taken over.

Simon sits down. The glow of the light above him makes it more obvious how drawn and unhappy he looks. “Where is your hideout?” he asks.

“This is getting old.”

“Where are the other pirates?”

“You know I’m not going to answer you,” Hercule says. “I am loyal to my friends.”

“And I’m loyal to mine.”

“Some friends.”

Simon squeezes his gloved hands into fists and pushes them against his thighs. “You should take Colonel Fussar’s offer. It’s very generous.”

“There is that word again. Your definition of generous is suspect, little overseer.”

“The day you were caught, you and your pals killed a soldier,” Simon says.

“We have killed a lot more than one soldier.”

Simon opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He licks his lips, his eyes briefly darting toward the stoic man by the door. “You… how many of you _are_ there?”

“What’s the matter? Does it make you nervous, thinking about people wanting to kill you? I can assure you, every single worker would love to cut your throat.” He looks at the mark on Simon’s face, adding, “And at least some of your ‘friends’ aren’t too fond of you, either.”

“Mind your own business. You still have quite an attitude for someone fixin’ to be hanged.”

“I hope the money is worth your soul.”

“Shut up!” Simon snarls. He gets to his feet abruptly, his face twisted in rage. “I’ll—I’ll tell them you can understand Spanish. Then Ángel can interrogate you. Or I’ll whip the answers out of you. Is that what you want?” The split on Simon’s cheek opens up again during his tirade, and blood slowly trickles out.

“You’re bleeding. You need to put something on that.”

Simon reflexively lifts his hand to his cheek, then winces. It must sting, and the bruise itself has to hurt. He looks at his fingertips, frowning. He turns to the soldier and says in Spanish, “Let’s go, Valdés. This is a waste of time,” then heads outside without another word.

Valdés gives Hercule a nasty smile. He extinguishes the light and follows Simon.

***

Movement inside the jail wakes Hercule a few hours later. He peers around, disoriented. A figure is crossing the room, and he recognizes Simon’s silhouette. He’s still wearing his day clothes, and his face is obscured by shadows.

“Here,” Simon says. He crouches down, pulling something from a bag.

 _So stupid,_ Hercule thinks. _I could grab him right now, he’s pressed up against the bars…_ Simon isn’t wearing his gunbelt though, so there is no gun to steal. And, well, he probably doesn’t have a key to the cell anymore, but wouldn’t it feel nice to hurt him, to kill him?

As though reading Hercule’s mind, Simon says, “I don’t have the key.” He holds something through the bars—salted beef. When Hercule takes it, he hands him the rest: more of that soft bread and a wedge of cheese.

“What are you doing?” Hercule asks.

“Just eat it.”

“If they catch you, they will kill you.”

“Yeah.” Simon is looking at him, but it’s impossible to make out the expression on his face.

“No orange?”

That draws a rough laugh that sounds pained. Simon stands, shoving the bag into his pocket. When he gets to the door, he hesitates. It has to be terrifying to disobey someone like Fussar, particularly when you’ve seen up close how ruthless he is. After a long moment, Simon pulls open the door and slips outside.

Hercule considers the food. He could so easily get Simon killed. All it would take is saving a bit of cheese or a chunk of bread, and making sure a guard saw it. There’s no doubt who they’d blame. He wonders if Fussar would bother to hang Simon or if he would just shoot him. He tries to picture him struggling for breath as he swings at the end of a rope, and the image turns his stomach. Shaking his head to clear it, he waits for the nausea to pass and then eats every bite of food.

***

Early in the morning, the same two soldiers empty the bucket. Hercule catches them both inspecting the floor with suspicion. He wonders whether Simon made it to the hacienda without anyone spotting him.

A few hours pass before the door opens again. Valdés and Simon both come inside. In the natural light, the bruise looks more grotesque, marring Simon’s pale skin. There are bags under his eyes as well, as though he hasn’t been sleeping enough. _Guess it’s hard to get a good night’s sleep when you’re sneaking around the compound,_ Hercule thinks.

Simon sits down heavily in the chair.

“I thought you called this a waste of time,” Hercule says.

“Yes, I did. Colonel Fussar said to offer you a final opportunity to cooperate, and then…” He shrugs.

“What? Your generous boss is going to whip me?” When Simon doesn’t answer, Hercule continues, “Ah. _You_ are going to whip me.”

“They’re going to tell me to.”

“And you will do it.”

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

Hercule laughs bitterly. “Let’s skip all of this, then. Why don’t we go straight to the part where you show everyone what a big man you are?”

Instead of getting angry, Simon holds his gaze. “I would prefer it if you just take the deal.”

“I’m not betraying my men! And I certainly would never work for that tyrant. I hope the rebels kill all of you. You will die very soon, _mon petit._ ”

Flinching, Simon leans back in the chair, tugging at the rings on his necklace.

Valdés suddenly asks Simon in Spanish, “Is he telling you anything?”

“No.”

“You heard Colonel Fussar. This has gone on long enough.”

“I know.” Simon turns his attention to Hercule. “Last chance,” he says in English.

Hercule shakes his head, and after a few seconds Valdés taps his boot on the floor, prompting Simon to lead the way outside.

***

For the second night in a row, he wakes to someone sneaking into the jail. It’s Simon again, but this time he has a key to the cell. He fumbles in the dark, trying to unlock the door.

“What the hell?” Hercule asks drowsily.

“Shh, we have to go.”

“What are you talking about?”

Simon looks at him through the bars. “I stole the key. We have to hurry.” He focuses on the lock again, and manages to get it open. “Come on.” When Hercule comes to the front of the cell, he holds out a rifle.

Hercule takes it, astonished.

“It’s loaded. I—” Simon falters, suddenly conscious of the position he put himself in. He takes a small step backward.

Hercule slings the rifle over his shoulder. “Do you have more rounds for it?”

“Yeah.” He hands over a box that Hercule stashes in his pocket.

“What exactly is your plan?”

“We have to get out of here! That’s the plan.”

Noticing the bag Simon has strapped across his back, Hercule asks, “What is that?”

“My things.”

Hercule wrinkles his nose. “You think you’re coming with me?”

“We don’t have time for this. They’ll come right here to check when they figure out what I did.” He assesses Hercule critically. “Can you run? You’ve been in here awhile.”

“I’m fine. Can _you_ run?”

“Yeah.”

“I know it’s not as challenging as carrying a chair, but—”

“I can run,” Simon snaps. “Don’t worry.”

“Trust me, I’m not. You are on your own if you fall behind.” The other man rolls his eyes and goes to the door. “What makes you so sure I won’t kill you the second we are away from the compound?”

Simon’s shoulders stiffen. “I guess you might. But now they’ll kill me too if they catch me. I’ll take my chances with you.”

They step outside, scanning the area for movement. It’s a clear night, and the fresh air immediately lifts some of the fog from Hercule’s brain.

A shout from the direction of the hacienda makes Simon jump. He grasps Hercule’s wrist. “They must have found Valdés!”

“What do you mean, ‘found’ him?” he asks, shaking his hand free. Simon doesn’t answer. “Fine. We’ll go through the trees and try to get to the river.”

They round the side of the jail as the alarm starts to clang. More shouts come, closer now. At the treeline, Simon hesitates. “It’s too dark.”

“Would you rather get shot?” Hercule retorts. “Just watch where you step.”

“How can I, when it’s pitch black?”

“Shut up and follow me.” Before he can move, a gunshot cracks from behind them. _“Merde!”_ He returns fire, blindly at first, then aiming when he spots two figures approaching from the far side of the jail. He drops one man, only for another to appear. Beside him, Simon seems frozen. “Damn it, Simon, either help me or get down!” In response, he hears the boom from Simon’s revolver.

Once the two remaining men fall, Hercule enters the jungle, running as fast as he can while still avoiding vines and tree roots. He doesn’t bother to check whether Simon is keeping up, but he hears footsteps echoing his own. The shooting will draw a swarm of soldiers this way, too many to take on, so the best option is to distance themselves and hope it’s impossible to track them in the dark.

“Wait!” Simon calls.

Hercule reluctantly stops. They haven’t even gone a kilometer. “What is it?”

“I have to rest.”

Turning, Hercule says impatiently, “I told you, if you fall behind—”

“I know, I know. Just give me a second.” He’s taking ragged breaths and clutching at his side.

“Give me the bag.”

“I can carry it, it’s fine.”

“Give it here.”

Simon shoves the bag at him sullenly, and he loops it over his shoulder, keeping the rifle in his hand. A branch snaps several meters away, and that is their sole warning before more gunfire peppers the night. Hercule grabs Simon’s arm and yanks him forward, barking, “Get behind me!” He tries to fire in the direction of the muzzle flashes, praying the soldiers are as disoriented as he is. Fortunately only two men have caught up. The rest presumably spread out in other directions from the compound.

After the two soldiers are dead, Hercule goes to check on Simon, who has obediently crouched down. Kneeling in front of him, he says, “Are you all right? You weren’t hit, were you?” He skims his hands over Simon’s chest and sides, searching for wounds. “Levi, answer me.”

“No,” Simon whispers. “I wasn’t hit.”

“Okay. We have to keep moving. If any more find us, I think we will be pushing our luck.”

“I’m not sure I can run.”

“I need you to get up. We won’t run anymore, but we can’t stay here.” He holds out a hand, then helps pull Simon to his feet. They are close to the river, and once they cross it, they can easily cut through the jungle to the beach. Uncertainty nags at Hercule. Does he really intend to take Simon to the fort? Even after all this tonight, can he trust him?

“Where are we going?” Simon asks.

“The river.”

“I mean after that.” When Hercule is silent, Simon stops walking. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” he says dully.

“No. You know I’m not. Would I have tried to shield you if I were planning to kill you?”

“I guess not.”

“Let’s get farther away, then we will figure out what to do.”

At the river, Hercule hurriedly washes up while Simon keeps watch. It makes him feel a little more human after the past several days. He stands, letting water drip from his hair down his face and neck. His vision clears, and he finds Simon looking at him. “You are supposed to watch that way,” Hercule says, pointing.

“Right.” He turns, facing the slope that descends from the western edge of the compound.

“What happened with Valdés?”

“I killed him. I tried to get the key without him noticing, but he caught me.”

Hercule frowns. There are a dozen more questions on the tip of his tongue. Instead of asking any of them, he says, “Let’s go. It’s not far to Cinco Torres.”

“The fort? _That’s_ where you all…” Simon trails off, sighing.

“And you can’t be armed.”

“What? You’re joking.”

Hercule raises his eyebrows. “Of course I’m not joking.”

“No. No way.”

“It isn’t a request.”

“I ain’t giving up my gun.” Simon crosses his arms over his chest, a defiant scowl on his face.

Hercule forces himself to be patient. Anger will only make the other man more stubborn. “What exactly do you think will happen if you go up there with a weapon?”

“Fine, damn it.” Simon snatches the revolver from its holster and holds it out by the barrel. He watches Hercule tuck the gun into the leather bag. “Now your pirate friends are safe.”

“This isn’t just about their safety. You know they will not trust you, and having that would make matters worse. Come on.”

They cross the shallow river, then cut an angle through the less dense trees toward the coast.


End file.
